Alexander Leaving
by omelettethemusical
Summary: A short one-shot about Eliza on the night of Alexander's death. Based on the song "Alexandra Leaving" by Leonard Cohen (RIP).


_A/N: I don't own Hamilton (duh). _

* * *

It was dark outside now. A chill settled into the room, and Eliza knew Alexander was gone. She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. It was cold as ice. She could almost see his soul being carried away to the land of the dead. She wanted to shout "Come back!", but Angelica's hand on her shoulder stopped her. Instead, she collapsed into tears.

/

She remembered their wedding night. She had been a virgin, and he had too, or so she thought at the time. There were prostitutes that made a living off the students at Kings College, and sometimes the way he and Laurens looked at each other - no, she assured herself. She was his first. That sheepish grin, those sweaty hands - he may be cocky in public, but in private, she could disarm him. Even after twenty years, eight children and one humiliating public affair, her bed transformed him. And he transformed her.

It was in that same bed, now, that Alexander lay stiff and still. She had never seen him like this, never. It was as if time had frozen; that was the only way she could make sense of it. Maybe if she just went to sleep, she would wake up in the morning and Alexander would be writing at his desk, as he had the night before. Or drinking coffee, or playing piano with the children, or…

No. She had tried to fool herself once before, with Philip, and it hadn't worked. She knew death. It took and it took and it took, and she kept living anyways. Alexander was doomed from the minute Burr's bullet entered his abdomen. All she could do was say goodbye. _Lord, please teach me how to say goodbye._

/

Alexander had never slept on satin before their wedding night. He seemed almost as taken with it as he was with her. It must have been hard for him to go back to the war after lying in that bed. But he did, and when he came back, he let her know by planting a kiss on her cheek while she slept. Barely awake, she thought for a moment that she was dreaming. But it was really him. Well, now she had to take the bad with the good. Great happiness always came at a great cost, and now she was the one who paid for it.

/

"You need fresh air," Angelica said finally. She got up and opened the window. Eliza realized she was right, as always. As soon as the summer night breeze wafted into the bedroom, she didn't feel so alone anymore. She forced her legs to lift her from her chair and looked outside. Everything was the same as it always was; the street-lamps were lit, streams of water trickled into the gutter. And yet she knew that word had gotten round to the whole city by now. Alexander Hamilton had been fatally wounded in a duel by Vice President Aaron Burr and wouldn't last the night. And he hadn't. The last thing she wanted was to deal with all the strangers coming in tomorrow morning to offer their condolences.

Her memory stretched back even farther now, to the night she and Alexander met. She could hear the band playing and the raucous laughter of Alexander and his friends as they flirted with every girl in sight. Angelica had been charmed by nearly every man she met, and could never settle on one. But the minute Eliza saw Alexander, she knew she could spend the rest of her life with him. She had taken a vow to that effect, when she was too young to understand what it meant. But despite everything, she would take it again.

Not the rest of your life, she thought miserably. Just the rest of his life.

/

There were years when she hardly ever saw Alexander. He was gone all day, writing the Federalist Papers or trying to get the votes for his national bank or working on Washington's reelection campaign. But she always looked forward to the evenings, because those were hers. Even if he didn't have the energy to lie with her, she was comforted by his presence. She had been part of the aristocracy all her life, but it wasn't until she married Alexander that she felt noble.

/

Honor. He always talked about that word, and she had always scoffed at it, wondering why nothing he had was ever enough for him. She should have known that he would be challenged to a duel. She should have known that he wouldn't back down. She should have known that he would throw away his shot, even after what happened to Philip. She had known what kind of man he was when she married him. If he could be brave to the point of stupidity, why couldn't she be brave enough to face what was happening? Why did she have to explain everything to herself, as if she were writing a story? Nothing about Alexander had ever made sense while he was alive. Why should it be different with him dead?

/

His writing was his legacy. But it had never made sense to Eliza. Sure, she had some understanding of politics, but her father had taught her that it was unladylike to express too much interest, a lesson she had absorbed but Angelica had not. What she didn't understand was the way he never stopped; death was the only thing that could stop him. Now that he had stopped, she finally had time to sift through everything he had written, to try to understand why he had made her do things she never thought she would do. He had died a martyr, or at least that was how he would see it. But his death would not be in vain. She would hold on to everything she had not burned. She would not let him be bastardized and forgotten. She would put herself - and him - back in the narrative.

She heard the undertaker's coach pull up in the driveway. She couldn't bear to watch them take him away. She bent down and kissed his forehead. "Goodbye, Alexander," she whispered. Then she walked out the door, Angelica right behind her.


End file.
